Never Too Late
by BulletsCoffeeFaith
Summary: Five times Ben Mason brought a blade to his wrist, and one time he was caught in the act. Songfic. STRONG WARNINGS/CAUTION: Self-harm, depression, attempted suicide. Not for children or the squeamish.


**A/N: This is just a little idea that smuggled its way into my head yesterday; I figured since I have to wait until next Sunday for the new episode of Falling Skies, I might as well write down all my little plot-bunny ideas to pass the time. Reviews are love. Flames will be saved to grill hamburgers on my birthday (which is in eight days, I might add.) So enjoy or don't enjoy – but please tell me what you think!**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Falling Skies, any of its characters, or the song Never Too Late by Three Days Grace.**

**STRONG WARNINGS/CAUTION: Severe angst, cutting, depression, suicidal thoughts, attempted suicide. Dark – not for kiddies, folks. Or those who are easily affected by this sort of thing.**

_This world will never be_

_What I expected_

_And if I don't belong_

_Who would have guessed it?_

_I will not leave alone_

_Everything that I own_

_To make you feel like it's not too late_

_It's never too late_

He was a freak.

To deny it would be naïve, Ben knew – he was different, in a horrible way. Probably the worst way anybody could think at a time like this; he had the means to communicate with the aliens that were eliminating their species.

It made him angry. Not only at the Skitters, for putting him into this situation, but at all those of the Second Mass who assumed he would join his "Skitter-friends" simply because he had such an option. He could never do that. Not when his family, his brothers and his father, could be killed in the process. Couldn't anybody understand that? Or was Tom Mason the only person who would ever look at Ben without hatred, without fear of the glowing spikes in his spine?

And he broke.

He'd heard of it so many times before, as a way to alleviate pain. Starting his last year of middle school, Ben had promised himself he would never fall to such horrible, damaging ways. Now he felt stupid. How could he have ever thought he'd be able to avoid it? It was only natural for people like him; and more than that, it worked.

It had been two weeks since his harness removal. Two weeks since Ben had become a razorback, and his entire life slipped down the drain. He brought the stolen blade up to his wrist – again and again, until he was satisfied with the beads of red substance that rolled down the sides of his arms.

Ben wrapped the blade in a dirt-splashed white cloth and stowed it away under his cot for future use.

_Even if I say_

_It'll be alright_

_Still I hear you say_

_You want to end your life_

_Now and again we try_

_To just stay alive_

_Maybe we'll turn it all around_

_'Cause it's not too late_

_It's never too late_

Nothing was going right.

Just when he'd thought that maybe – just _maybe _– he could have a somewhat ordinary life with his family once again, everything went spiraling out of control. God and fate played with him, twisting and changing the paths every time he found his way to the right one. And now his father was gone.

He still had Hal, of course, and they still had Matt. Hal was strong, Hal was protective – he'd never let anything happen to Ben, physically or emotionally.

If only the older boy knew that his little brother, the one he thought was coping, thought was okay, was slowly dying inside. Bringing the blade back to his wrists once more, slowly killing himself, passing the time. Until finally, the day came where he would have to courage to lift it towards his throat instead. Or maybe a gun to his head, Ben thought bitterly. Something to end this twisted nightmare of a life.

And he broke.

Quiet sobs wracked his body, tears streaming down his face as he begged in his mind for his father back, for something to hold onto that would keep him sane. But he knew it would never happen. His father was gone – as good as dead, if what Weaver had told them about Tom going away with the aliens was true. He had nothing. He couldn't tell Hal. It would break his heart to see Ben so psychologically broken. Ben wouldn't' do that, wouldn't take another family member away from his brother, when he'd already taken one away.

Tom had climbed onto that ship to save Ben – to save his son, who was already too far gone to be rescued.

He lifted the edge of the blade to his wrist once more. The scars from the last time still sat, untouched and unnoticed by everyone. Ben watched as his tears fell into the cuts he now re-opened, the salt of them stinging, adding onto the pain. The blood – God, he loved to see it. To see his life slowly bleeding out of him, fading away.

Until he had the strength to end it completely.

It was the only way. It was the only way out, and so he would take it.

_No one will ever see_

_This side reflected_

_And if there's something wrong_

_Who would have guessed it?_

_And I have left alone_

_Everything that I own_

_To make you feel like_

_It's not too late_

_It's never too late_

He was so damn sick of this.

Every time somebody asked how he was, if he was alright, he wanted to scream. He wanted to tell them what a mess he was. He wanted somebody to know about the ideas that ran through his mind – different ways he could take his own life, ways he could do it discreetly, without anybody finding the opportunity to stop him.

He wanted to tell somebody, so the pain would go away.

But if he ever dared tell anyone, they'd stop him for sure.

And so he didn't, and he broke.

He saw the looks Hal gave him when he thought Ben wasn't looking – ranging from slight suspicion, to concern, to sadness. Sometimes, Ben worried that his brother might have an idea; might know what he'd been doing to himself. Then his brother looks away again, goes back to what he was doing, and the younger is left with an empty sort of gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Maybe he wants somebody to ask what's wrong, just to be able to say someone cares.

It's been almost two months since his father disappeared. Any sliver of hope in the backs of their minds that he could still be alive had been lost long ago. Ben knew his father wasn't ever coming back. It was his fault.

Again, he brought the blade to his wrists, overlapping old cuts and creating new ones. He allowed himself to cry. The stinging sensation, the pain he felt, should have put a new kind of life back into him, the way it had the first time. But it didn't. It drained him, even more than it had the last time.

He would have the strength one day. One day, he would have courage, and he would end this.

For now, he watched the blood trickling down his arms in a numb, tired sense of satisfaction.

_Even if I say_

_It'll be alright_

_Still I hear you say_

_You want to end your life_

_Now and again we try_

_To just stay alive_

_Maybe we'll turn it all around_

_'Cause it's not too late_

_It's never too late_

He'd just shot, and possibly killed, his own father. The father who'd probably traveled miles just to see them again, to be with him, and Matt, and Hal. The father who'd been so happy to see them alive and well, despite the bullet lodged in his abdomen.

_What a monster I am, _he thought, and he broke.

It was an all-too familiar feeling, the guilt and the shame that made this act of self-injury so justified. It wasn't enough that he was a freak with metal patches and spikes sticking out all over his back, no. He had to be a murderer, too. Not a solider, and not a murderer of Skitters, which was considered honorable in times like these. There was the most prominent chance he'd just killed his own father. Accident or not, it was him. He'd done it. The pain his father was in now had been his own doing; it was only fair that Ben receive such a terrible, aching pain in return.

He watched the blood pool down his arms. Ben knew he'd cut much deeper than he should have. If he'd pushed a little harder, there was a chance he might have to call it an accident and have Anne stitch it, while listening to her maternal lectures about being more careful and not letting the wound get infected.

It hurt much more. He liked it. His lips curled into a bitter smile as it riveted down his arms, staining the grass below him. Some of the few birds left in the area swooped in and out of trees, chirping happily, blissfully unaware of the boy that sat sobbing, smiling and bleeding below them.

Nobody could ever find out, especially now that Tom had returned. Matt wouldn't understand; he'd be scared. His father would cry, he was sure of it. Hal would be angry, then sad, then fierce and protective. Hal especially wouldn't let him continue, would do everything in his power to try and fix the turmoil his brother's mind had become.

He would keep it a secret. They would know soon enough, when they found him dead on the floor of the tent. Weeks…maybe months from now. Whenever the time felt right.

For now, Ben would bleed, and he would wait.

_The world we knew_

_Won't come back_

_The time we've lost_

_Can't get it back_

_The life we had_

_Won't be ours again_

_This world will never be…_

_What I expected…_

_And if I don't belong…_

One last time.

Ben slid the knife easily over the flesh of his arms. The scars were covering them now; half an hour he'd been sitting here, letting it bleed away. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, which meant he'd already lost more than enough. Ben felt like crying. He was becoming desperate.

All the relief that this had once given him was gone. He felt no happiness, or joy, or rush, and it was agony. Never before had he been forced to deal with this. He'd always just been able to pick up his blade and make it go away before it became too horrible. But he didn't have that option now. He didn't know why, and God, it scared him to death. If this couldn't work, there was only one other way, and he wasn't sure he was ready for it.

But he had to be. He would rather die and rest in peace than live the rest of his days in this hell.

Ben, his hand trembling, set the blade down on the cot, and pulled his shotgun out from underneath it. He took deep, hitching breaths, unable to get enough oxygen. His body shook with the thought of what he was about to do, and the pain he was about to put his family through. They would hear a gunshot, coming from the tent, and would be worried; they would assume he was in danger, and they would be right. Danger from somebody else, they would think. Maybe Pope, who hated the middle Mason boy with a burning passion. They would find him alone, a bullet in his brain, a gun in his hand, and all the pieces would fall into places.

He almost hated to do this. It would kill them, all three of them, and Anne, too. Ben had never been able to process why they seemed to not care for him, but when he was hurt – or soon, dead – they seemed to be in pain themselves. Sympathy, maybe. He wasn't going to stick around to find out.

Ben felt his finger tighten around the trigger.

And then he was lying on his back, staring up at the top of the tent. No bullet in his head, no blood, with a warm weight pressing him down.

"_Ben."_

And his worst nightmare was confirmed as his father's agonized face came into view, holding the shotgun in a shaking hand. Ben stared up, horrified. What would he do? Would he be upset, demand to know what his son had been thinking, or would he be angry, hate Ben for being so careless, so thoughtless and weak?

"_Don't hate me."_

Warm arms enveloped him, lifting him into a sitting position. The sound of choked sobs filled Ben's ears as he sat, his head lying on his father's chest, feeling the sudden jerks and wracks of Tom's body as he cried. He knew exactly what Ben had been doing; and now what he'd been doing for months as he pulled the teen's still-bleeding wrists up to his chest, cradling them.

Ben sat in shock, barely registering the fact that he'd just been caught in the act. _Everything_. In five seconds, it had all been ruined, destroyed, blown to pieces.

"I love you, Ben." Tom whispered, burying his face into the fifteen-year-old's hair. Ben shook slightly, the tears beginning the slide down his own face. "Why? Why would you do this?"

"It hurt," he whispered, pressing the side of his head against his father's shoulder. "It…I just couldn't…" he trailed off, biting onto his bottom lip. "Don't hate me," he repeated, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"I could never hate you," Tom murmured into his son's blonde locks, and Ben could feel the tears falling against his hair. "I love you. You're going to be alright, okay? You don't have to do this. I'm here…I'm here, Ben." He pulled the hem of his jacket towards his son's wrist, clearing the blood, counting the scars that lined his arms.

And maybe, for a few minutes, he could sit here and let Tom offer him comforting words, let some of the pain fade for a little while. This was far from the end. He would need more than a few words to be okay enough, to say goodbye to his blade.

For now, though, they would let this be enough.

_Even if I say_

_It'll be alright_

_Still I hear you say_

_You want to end your life_

_Now and again we try_

_To just stay alive_

_Maybe we'll turn it all around_

_'Cause it's not too late_

_It's never too late_

_It's not too late…_

_It's never too late_


End file.
